


You Give Me Fever

by watchthequeenconquer



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alfie is a bad patient, Back Pain, Between Season 2 and 3, Fever, First Kiss, Humour, Hurt/Comfort, Just business ay Tommy?, M/M, Ollie blames dark magic, Superstition, Undecided Relationship(s), pain relief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 05:50:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10758015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watchthequeenconquer/pseuds/watchthequeenconquer
Summary: After Alfie misses two business engagements due to sickness, Tommy investigates and decides to take his ill-tempered, uncooperative business partner's recovery into his own hands.





	You Give Me Fever

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for violence and some Romani racial slurs and stereotypes referenced - canon within the realm of encounters between interracial gangland members.
> 
> I do not own Peaky Blinders or its characters, though Esther is my creation - couldn't resist the thought of Alfie having a sassy Jewish housekeeper! 
> 
> Title is from the Peggy Lee song of the same name.
> 
> Yiddish translations - Oy Gevalt - a strong exclamation of displeasure  
> \- Goy - a less flattering form of the word gentile, meaning a non-Jewish person  
> \- Yente - busybody or gossip, generally an older woman.

“Can I help you, Lizzie?” 

Tommy Shelby’s pale blue eyes fix her in place in the doorway to his office, tone measured as he glances up from reviewing the state of their accounts. 

“Telegram from London.” Her stride doesn’t falter as she moves to his desk to hand over the memo, long skirt rustling with the movement, “Didn’t think it could wait.” 

Tommy skims the correspondence quietly then nods. 

“That’ll be all.” 

As she retreats, he studies the card on his desk with a frown - the bread isn’t spoiled, but the baker is. meeting postponed.

In the year Tommy has been doing business with him, Solomons has never cancelled a meeting. The memo makes it clear that the shipment is going ahead as scheduled, but the hiccup in their regular dealings worries at him. 

Shaking out a cigarette, Tommy attempts to put the minor disruption to the back of his mind. 

__ 

 

The following week arrives with another late telegram. 

Bakery still under maintenance. Better make it next month. 

“What’s going on up there, Ollie?” Tommy speaks calmly into the phone, frustration tempered by the undercurrent of rising concern, beating at him like the coming tide on the shoreline. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Shelby.” The doorman responds with insincere flatness, pausing before rushing out, “Mr. Solomons is currently indisposed, but if you have any questions about the order- “ 

“I’ll ask him myself.” Tommy returns before placing the phone back down. The short conversation and the poorly suppressed stress in the young man’s voice confirmed his next move before it is even over. 

__

 

What are you to do when the devil is waiting on your doorstep? 

Knowing the man, Ollie shouldn’t have been surprised to find Thomas Shelby, in his notoriously tenacious manner, doesn’t not respond well to negatives. Yet he still gives a start when his strong outline appears through the smog of the early morning light, coat swirling about his frame like a brewing storm. 

‘Deal or die.’ Something theatrical inside him whispers. 

“He’s still not in, Mr. Shelby.” Ollie calls tiredly, shoulders already slumped in surrender as the Birmingham gang leader closes in, “I’ll bring you inside if you’d like to see for yourself.” 

“That won’t be necessary. You’re a smart lad, Ollie.” Tommy responds, voice thick as the dawn fog in his throat as he regards the young man calmly, “We both know that I am not going anywhere until you tell me where he is.”

“I’ll do you one better. See if I don’t lose my head for it,” Ollie sighs. Better to throw yourself at the mercy of your maker, deranged as he is, than displease the unknown devil incensed.

“And I don’t suppose I can convince you to leave behind that canister you’re carrying in your coat?”

“It’ll be coming with me.” 

Ollie retreats resignedly inside, turning back to catch the glowing embers of Tommy’s cigarette twisting and writhing, dancing for their master like demons, before disappearing down the corridor. 

Ollie’s heard the stories and he isn’t superstitious. That doesn’t mean he is going to gamble with an Ouija board before day break to prove the point. 

___ 

 

When Ollie returns with a black blindfold in hand, Tommy puts out his cigarette and cooperates. 

He allows himself to be led to a car, head pushed down firmly to avoid the top of the door, silencing the internal advisers shrieking ambush and isolated attack. Eventually desists in attempting to map their route in his mind, giving over to the endless rights and lefts of the unfamiliar London grid. 

“Mr. Solomons will be in a right state, I’m warning you.” Ollie’s voice cuts through the darkness, sharp with nerves. Tommy can almost feel him white-knuckle fisting the steering wheel.

“Isn’t he always?” Tommy ventures. To imagine Solomons as anything less would be a disservice to his character. 

“Poor health and confinement don’t suit him.” Ollie replies evenly, not rising to the bait but unable to help but add sharply, “I can imagine you would be kindred spirits in that regard.”

“Aye.” Tommy agrees, letting the silence between them fill up the space, tasting the young man’s worry in the anxious rapping of his fingers on the wheel, the restless shifting in his seat. 

“His temperament does nothing to help his recovery, Mr. Shelby.” Ollie divulges without invitation, speaking heedlessly and intimately as only the young confronted with difficulty can, “He’s adamant whiskey is the only cure, even hacking his lungs up, and he won’t eat a damn thing, just getting worse…” 

“I’ll handle him, Ollie.” Tommy cuts him off with finality. The boy obligingly shuts his mouth, completing the drive in silence, either too afraid to continue or realising for the first time that the two men might share a common purpose. 

___

The car stops and Tommy resigns himself to being led again. Solomons would enjoy the mental image of a bristling bull being pulled by its nose ring that the exercise summons forth. 

When the restraint is removed, Tommy’s eyes widen shamelessly as he takes in his surroundings. The low lighting in the hallway illuminates an oil painting of a harem of horses, black as night, tearing through the open countryside, spotless wooden floors and is that a doily under the lamp? 

“Interesting.” He murmurs, moving closer to inspect the painting, bending to pinch the thin but intricately detailed material between his fingers. A man’s private domicile revealed much about his inner workings, and Tommy had never believed he would ever be graced with this particular glimpse of good fortune. 

His exploration and visual collection of evidence both delightful and damning is cut short by a shriek emanating from the bowels of the establishment. 

“Bloody nightmare!” A stout elderly woman raves as she storms up the hallway, spit flying from her sagging mouth, “Throwing food about like a caged animal! Let him rot …oy gevalt..." 

“Esther, we have company!” Ollie attempts to intervene, but the woman has already halted in front of Tommy, eyeing him distrustfully, “This is Mr. Shelby. Mr. Shelby, this is Esther, Mr. Solomons’ housekeeper and the only woman that would abide him.” 

“Alfie’s not in the mind for visitors.” The housekeeper replies dismissively in her thick accent, folding her thick arms across her ample bosom, physically barring their passage. 

“I would never presume to know Mr. Solomons’ mind, ill or ill-tempered.” Tommy replies smoothly with a hard smile, acknowledging but unrelenting in his stance. 

“Mr. Shelby is Mr. Solomons’ business partner.” Ollie clarifies, uncomfortable in the tense silence as Esther continues to interrogate the newcomer with her piercing stare. Tommy, for his part, remains unmoved. 

“'s not Jewish.” 

“No, I am not Jewish but Mr. Solomons won’t throw food at me.” Tommy promises the old caretaker, savage in his sincerity, “If he does, I’ll make him choke on it.”

Esther’s mouth stops mid-response, flapping open like a sheet in the wind before shutting in consideration of the proposition. 

“What Tommy is trying to say is he has dealt with Mr. Solomons before, Esther!” Ollie splutters, “He’s only here to help!” 

The gatekeeper’s wrinkled face cracks further with the slightest hint of a smile, eyes sparkling in delight. In that look, Tommy is assured that she was a dangerous woman in her formative years and that age has not hindered her ability to inflict damage.

“Tommy… this is familiar.” Esther muses, before unleashing a sharp cackle, “He asks after you in his fever-dreams!” 

The broad crack of her grin only deepens as she catches Tommy off-guard, blue eyes bright with misunderstanding as she moves aside to allow him through almost dutifully. 

“My English is no good.” Esther waves them off with the apologetic nature of a woman who has never admitted a fault in her life, “Up the stairs to right. God keep you!”

“Good to know divine intervention is onside when needed.” Tommy thinks cynically, inclining his head in acknowledgment of the surpassed adversary as he moves, continuing through the too-quaint living room and toward the foot of the stairs. 

He almost halts in pause upon catching the hushed mutters of conversation behind him as he goes.

“I like, but why can Alfie not bring home a nice Jewish girl?”

“Business partner, Esther-!” 

Tommy begins to climb the spiral staircase without stopping to think, Ollie close behind a second later. 

___

 

Alfie Solomons is in a state alright. 

“Tell me why this ghostly apparition with a truly haunting resemblance to the as-of-yet-not-deceased is levitating in my living quarters?” He asks his young ward with the unsettling patience displayed only by the deeply deranged. 

The sickness has done nothing to diminish his powerful presence, save when he breaks off to hack his lungs up into his damp shirtsleeve. 

“He threatened to put a hex on me if I didn’t bring him?” Ollie tries, hoping desperately that he had caught his master in a less than lucid moment. 

“What did you FUCKING SAY TO ME, BOY!” 

And there’s the undeniable explosiveness, the short-fuse igniting in the dark, drifting eyes, sizeable fists balled into the blankets as though he might hurtle out of the bed he’s been confined to for weeks just to maim. In Tommy’s experience, volatile creatures are only made more dangerous when fitted with restraints. Even like this, his back remains to the outer perimeter of the room, trained on Solomons’ movements at all times. 

“I-I…. Mr. Shelby demanded to see you, sir!” The pale faced youth replies, unconsciously moving backward as if to lessen the blow of an invisible force. 

Awaiting the outcome, Tommy glances around the room. Unspecified splatters of food adorn the walls in a messy wallpaper of colour, barely visible in the unnourishing slivers of light creeping through the heavily curtained window. A fire blazes in the hearth beside the bed, yet thick beads of perspiration cling to Solomons forehead and cheeks, catching in his unkempt beard. State doesn’t even come close to describing the picture before him. 

“You must be a hallucination too,” Solomons continues, gaze unstable but nonetheless commanding from his place in the simply-furnished double bed, “Ollie would already be out of my sight if he wished to remain in the land of the living!”

Ollie departs with his head bowed, thin necked extended in an almost sacrificial offering as he backs quickly out of the room. 

“Tommy fucking Shelby.” Solomons turns to him, quick as a snake lying in wait, testing the air with his hardened endearment, “To what occasion do I owe the extreme displeasure of your arrival? I would bow for the Prince of Birmingham but, as you can see, I am otherwise incapacitated.” 

“Now, now, Alfie, I’m just upholding my commitment to our arrangement,” Tommy interjects smoothly, moving further into the humid room, hands buried nonchalantly in his pockets, “I just proposed an alternative location.” 

“Oh yes, I’ve been privy to your particular brand of subtle persuasion before. Did you beguile or threaten to bludgeon this time around?” Solomons clicks his tongue in mock sympathy for his errant employee, “Judging by the unimpaired state of his face, it was a deceptive combination…” 

His musings are interrupted as he erupts into a fit of coughing, wet and hacking. Tommy waits until the episode ends before responding, aware that Solomons’ slumps back against the headboard to recuperate after the exerting effort. 

“A deal was founded on mutual interest,” Tommy says, unable to keep his gaze from the ragged rise and fall of Solomons’ bull-like chest, wilfully re-aligning his focus as he produces the crumpled black cloth from his pocket in proof, arching an eyebrow emphatically, “And there was compromise, as in all transactions. I even let him use the blindfold.” 

“With the glaring admission of bringing a known felon into my place of residence, there may still be hope for the hapless sod.” Solomons growls disapprovingly, punctuating the statement by draining the remainder of the brown liquid in the crystal glass by the bedside. 

He picks up the half-empty tumbler beside it to fill up a secondary glass. Tommy can smell the drink on him, a sharp cologne covering the strong scent of sweat that the unwell accumulate. He watches silently as Solomons tops the glass up to the brim before shaking his head at the offer. 

“Early in the day to be hitting the drink, isn’t it?” Tommy comments dryly, settling himself in the vacant armchair beside the fire, taking the general disregard for any standard of social propriety as an invitation to smoke. 

“In the absence of a good cigar, I find it cleanses the chest, though I’ll leave you to suck sanctimoniously on your morning tar-stick.” Solomons shoots back, clearly irritated at having his methods questioned, knocking back half of the second glass in one swallow before jabbing a thick accusatory finger, “And what fucking leg do you have to stand on? Bursting into a man’s house unannounced, then criticising his habits and refusing his whisky?” 

“It’s not even midday.” 

“It’s not acceptable, that’s what it is!” Solomons booms, thumping his fist with bruising force on the table to drive home his point, glass rattling with the impact. 

“What’s acceptable and what actuates are two entirely separate commodities in our line of work,” Tommy coughs after another drag of his cigarette, undeterred by the violent outburst, “Besides, after less than thorough correspondence in relation to our business, the follow up was inevitable.”

“Not even secure in my own fucking home. I need to hire better help.” Solomons sniffs, before blowing his nose emphatically into a slip of a white handkerchief. 

The dainty material reminds Tommy of the doily in the hallway, sparking his recollection of the earlier conversations downstairs. After weeks of concern about the state of their affairs, finding Solomons alive, if run down, fills him with a sense of relief that startles him in its acuteness. Relaxing into the conversation, the whispered discussions in the hallway prickle at the edges of Tommy’s mind. 

“On the contrary. Your staff have been quite informative in providing an update on your condition.” Tommy replies coolly, crossing a leg and settling his hands comfortably in his lap as he regards Solomons serenely, “Your housekeeper even mentioned that you had asked after me.” 

“Ask after you, did I?” Solomons barks, surprising Tommy as he explodes with grating laughter interspersed with nasal-wheezes before collecting himself to shake his head.

“Feh! Fucking ridiculous yente. Don’t keep her around for her linguistic prowess, do I?” He pulls at his beard contemplatively, narrowing his intelligent eyes as he scrutinises his guest, “Though I have never seen a goy slip past that venomous harpy before...” 

“Visiting hours were approved on the condition of my delicate bedside manner.” 

“Well, fuck me! Your deportment could do with an adjustment.” Solomons says with a disagreeable snort, tiredness affecting his already swinging mood as he breaks into another round of body-heaving coughing. 

Something in the dismissiveness tone wears thin on Tommy’s magnanimous appraisal of the situation. He can accept a certain level of banter in their exchanges, even when it verges on hostility. But after travelling all this way off his own back, if Solomons believes he can belittle Tommy for doing whatever it takes to protect his professional interests, he has made a grievous error indeed. 

“I’m as adaptable as the next man, but not when it comes to business.” Tommy responds, leaning forward in the chair, pale eyes flashing warningly, “After two weeks of cancellations, you can be damn sure I’m coming to assess the situation.” 

“Your shipment’s fine, I’ve ensured it.” Solomons returns with a wave of his heavily-ringed hand, refusing to relinquish ground but without his previous bite, “Paranoia is for the mental patients, mate, though I suppose you Birmingham people are used to dealing in delusions of grandeur, ain’t ya?” 

“Where there’s concern, there’s usually cause.” The firelight does nothing to warm the cool glint in Tommy’s hard, unblinking eyes. 

“Your smoke’s going to burn out into my chair.” 

“Just like my patience as I sit in it.” 

“I’m wounded!” Solomons’ tone is mocking, but his mouth is set in an equally stubborn line.

The tension is disrupted as Solomons’ dissolves into another fit, leaving him thumping on his chest for air as his tired lungs desperately attempt to expel the congestion within. This time, he spews out a tide of green and grey phlegm into a bucket by the bedside, huge shoulders shuddering through the motion. 

“I can see that.” Tommy says quietly, exhaling as the aggression loosens its stranglehold on his chest. Seeing his formidable business partner reduced to a fitful mess compels his persuasion to sympathy, seldom seen though it may be. Taking a deep breath, Tommy recomposes himself, just as Solomons catches his second wind. 

“What would you do if I was one of your show ponies, eh?” Solomons ventures, the hint of a smile visible as he wipes the remnants on his filthy shirtsleeve. 

Tommy both admires and resents his inability to relent despite his visibly weakened state. The trait is achingly familiar. He smiles coldly in response, depositing the still lit cigarette into the ash tray beside the bed, pressing his finger into the hot mark left in its wake. 

“I’d put you out of your misery.” 

“Fucking mercenary… it’s an infection, not a broken leg! It’ll pass.” Solomons’ rasp is less than reassuring, but he enjoys the shared penchant for brutality between them nonetheless. Sucking in depth breaths, he is barely able to lift himself from his place against the headboard. Tommy has never seen his cheeks drawn in so sharply, the black circles under his eyes so pronounced as he shifts in discomfort. 

“It’s a poor comparison. Even a wild animal will do everything in its power to ensure its survival.” 

“Self-preservation is for the decrepit and the dying. As I am neither, I prefer a more proactive process…productivity! That’s the guts and balls of industry, mate. Now, back to our business…” 

“Productivity can’t be achieved without progression. And here we are at a stalemate. Poor health is the complete opposite. It stagnates and drains.” Tommy presses, tugging on a loose thread in Solomons’ twisted tapestry of logic. 

He notices Solomons’ cane lolling against the bedside beside the sick bucket. Never far from reach. Would he attempt to dodge or block the blow if the response to his plan was unfavourable? He knew his reaction would always be to answer brutality in kind. That was Solomons and him alright, immovable forces colliding like rogue planets.

“If you need to be persuaded as to my virility, I could convincingly cave in your pretty skull.” Solomons growls, exhaustion displaying to its fullest extent in the explosion of manic aggression, “I’ll even let you pick which of your three floating heads I get to bruise.” 

Tommy stares back impassively, remaining unmoved when confronted with the clear challenge. The housekeeper had fed him no falsehood about the distorting impact on Solomons’ mind. He wasn’t sure which was more absurd, the additions to his physical anatomy or the charming appraisal of it. Regardless of its nature, Tommy chooses to approach the situation with the same weighted calculation that he would afford any of Solomons’ other threats, wordlessly awaiting the varied outcome. 

The small gravelly whine that eventually emanates in its entirety from the back of Solomons’ throat suggests Tommy’s restrained efforts have had the intended neutralising effect on his aggressor. 

“Forgive me, the shakes are doing queer thing to my pounding head. It is much harder than usual to remain civilised when you haven’t slept in a week and the room insists on tilting like a spinning top.” Solomons squeezes his eyes shut with a grimace, newly formed sweat forming on his forehead. Tommy thinks he might sick again with the way his body suddenly heaves involuntarily, but a moment later he is still and straining to refocus with dizzying effort. 

“No need. Businessmen can disagree on the method, yet still work toward a shared objective.” Tommy replies. Time to play the trump card. “In that vein, I’ve bought something that you won’t like, but will certainly help.” 

“Surprise! Thomas comes all the way from Birmingham to present a disputable plan.” Solomons manages, his breathing laboured, unable to mask his exhaustion but still managing to regard Tommy with interest beneath his heavy-lidded weariness, “Let’s have at it then! Daylights getting shorter than my capacity to inhale.” 

Tommy watches his brow furrow as he moves with deliberate slowness to rest on the edge of the bed. To his credit, Solomons does nothing but watch with perplexed interest, an apex predator lazily eyeing a prospective casualty inching within its treacherous range. 

The thick brows inch even closer together as Tommy unceremoniously produces the hidden canister from inside his coat. 

“Fucking hell.” Solomons breathes with a start at the glimmer of metal. Tommy knows the sickness is deeply ingrained when the Jewish boss reigns in his visible urge to hurtle the potential weapon as far away as possible, with its brandisher firmly attached. 

“Didn’t even pat him down, did you, you inbred fucking imbecile!” Solomons yells in the direction of the door, as if his young employee would materialise just for the scolding. 

Watching Solomons spit agitatedly into the bucket by the bedside, Tommy manages to capture his attention again with the sound of the lid unscrewing. Even in his delirious state, Solomons eyes the contents warily. 

“It’s a Romani recipe from my mother.” Tommy explains, tipping the canister forward for ease of inspection.

“Soup made from the shoes of a street urchin?” Solomons sniffs at the broth suspiciously, gravely noises of contemplation reverberating in the back of his throat. 

“Paid an extra quid for the sewer rat finish.” Tommy responds dryly, and there it is, the low throaty chuckle tickling Solomons throat that is his first indication that he might snap at the bait before running from the lure. 

“Family favourite, ay?” Solomons nods, still sharp despite the cloudy effect of the illness, “You won’t mind treating yourself to a taste first, then.” 

“Alright then. Observe.” Tommy presses his lips to the rim, struggling to keep the grimace off his face at the overpowering taste of the strong concoction, transported back to his childhood with the fishy aftertaste mixed in earthy undertones. He swallows thickly around the mixture. He can feel Solomons’ eyes on him, tracing the line of his exposed throat with a predatory intensity. 

He pulls off, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. No frothing at the mouth, seizing or imminent death prevails. 

“The taste leaves a lot to be desired,” Tommy admits, as Solomons gaze goes from clear to glazed, drifting in and out of focus like a reflection in fractured glass, “But if you can keep it down, it’ll clear you up inside and break that fever.” 

Solomons waits for an extended moment as though unconvinced, murmuring distrustfully. 

“I am not going to drop dead in front of you, nor is this a fanciful illusion conjured by sprites.” Tommy reassures him patiently, voice dropping even lower. Solomons’ hones in on it, struggling desperately to focus, “It’s the fever talking. This will make your head quiet so you can rest.” 

The contemplative pause continues. Even in this severe state, the man cannot just accept a proposition without reciprocal gratification, even when it’s for his own benefit.

“In the spirit of this ridiculously uncompromising gesture, will you evaporate and return to Birmingham or some otherworldly variant once you’ve finished this prolonged terrorising of my abode?” Solomons asks shrewdly, unable to keep the shake out of his voice, damp dark hair plastered to his forehead, distractedly running his tongue over his dry, full lips. 

“Once I’ve seen you swallow it, without pouring it in with the rest of the sick or flinging it around the room like an animal with its waste.” Tommy responds firmly, sounding for all the world like Pol would scold when they were lads, “Now, would you like me to pour it down your throat and speed the process along like my mother used to?” 

“Please don’t summon her here!” Solomons begs, wide-eyed in mock distress, stalling for his own amusement, ‘If you’re this demented in your determination, I have no desire to rouse the woman that spawned you... pass it over and pour me another whisky then.” 

Tommy acquiesces against his better judgement, unable to suppress a half-smile when he catches Solomons’ wrinkling his nose distastefully at the initial mouthful, before wholeheartedly committing to downing the remedy.

He slurps noisily with shameless abandon. The excess catches in his unruly beard as his huge weathered hands tip the canister upward in a bid to finish it as quickly as possible. Tommy leans over to set himself about his task, only half filling Solomons’ glass with a frown. 

He knows better than to mix the broth with alcohol, but he can scarcely convince Solomons there is only one of him present for the proceedings let alone deny him his only concession. 

The room is stiflingly overheated with the fire firmly ablaze, an unemptied chamber pot reeking somewhere nearby. The assault on the senses is enough to make a man in possession of all of his faculties struggle to maintain a clear train of thought. To give the man some semblance of privacy, Tommy remains facing away and pulls resolutely from the half-filled glass, swallowing hard around the distracting burn in his throat. 

“Should give some of this to Ollie,” Tommy remarks, clearing his throat against the strength of the drop, “That’ll put some hair on his chest.” 

“Fucking hell, I’ll be growing an extra pair of testicles at this rate!” 

A hand shoots out beside him in response, grabbing the entire pitcher on the bedside before Tommy can react. ‘He is an animal, alright.’ Tommy thinks as Solomons polishes off the remainder of the alcohol with startling ease, frame tight against the offensive taste of the broth but welcoming the additional substance. 

“Begrudgingly, I tip my proverbial hat to your people, Thomas.” Solomons all but groans, dropping the canister back on the bedside table with a thump, pitcher abandoned on the bed, before returning to loosely clasp his hands over his belly, “That was fucking horrendous, so you must be bred hard to endure it.”

“Here’s hoping you don’t shit yourself like I did the first time.” Tommy replies with a gentle laugh. He’s not sure if it’s the hit of the whisky or the absurdity of the situation, but Solomons is laughing too and there’s an uncharacteristically cavalier grin breaking out over his face.

Then he opens his mouth and Tommy realises the antidote, mixed with the unknown quantity of alcohol, is kicking in. 

“Wouldn’t be the first time this month, mate.” Solomons affirms with a hiccup, looking at his hands with wonderment, flexing his wrists and forearms with renewed energy, “Though I must say I am feeling a great deal better! Whatd’ you put in this, horse tranquiliser?” 

“The medicine reacts with the sickness, so you’ll feel a temporary surge of energy…” Tommy begins to explain, surprising himself when he places a steadying hand on the other man’s knee without thinking. 

“Fuck off, I feel brilliant. As emancipated as the first time I ended a wop, eh?” Solomons dismisses his concern, unaware of his own strength as he knocks Tommy’s arm aside emphatically with a powerful swinging gesture that sends him back into the headboard and unprepared Tommy nearly clean off the side of the bed. 

“It won’t last.” Tommy manages, beginning to right himself before a powerful arm latches onto his own and yanks him painfully closer. 

“Where do ya think you’re going then, hmm?” Solomons eyes him intently, “We’re not done with our business here, mate. Not till you have a drink, proper like.” 

Tommy tests his range of movement. The vice-like grip, unbelievably strong for someone in Solomons’ state, leaves not an inch of room for negotiation. The sparkling jubilation in Solomons’ eyes, tumultuous and dark like the ocean in a storm, transforms into a slowly dawning frown as he eyes the empty pitcher severely. The elixir was beginning its work in earnest - the knowledge he had demolished its contents only moments earlier had completely escaped his conscience. 

His thick lips form a pout so pronounced it would be comical were Tommy not aware of how dangerous a situation he was in. 

“Ollie, how’d ya expect me to enforce upon Mr. Shelby the uninhibited state of my longevity if we have nothing to toast it to, ay?” Solomons bellows, grabbing the empty vessel and gesticulating wildly. Though the intention is only to emphasise his point, in his impaired state, the execution is closer to a combat exercise. Tommy barely manages to duck the swinging forearm, breathing hard. 

“Typical. Underfoot when you don’t need em’ and nowhere to be found when there’s work to be done! This is precisely why I need to get back to my fucking bakery before its burnt to the ground…” Solomons growls before moving to right himself. His exhausted features strain with the effort, teeth gritting in pain, releasing Tommy to shift his powerful forearms beneath him in support. 

“Let it be. In a moment, the adrenaline’s going to wear off…” Tommy warns, tensing his frame as he telegraphs the other man’s movements, prepared to react in an instant. 

“If you don’t leave me be and continue spouting your predictions like some filthy gypsy omen, you’ll be wearing my fucking fist down your three throats!” Solomons snaps, black pupils swallowing what is left of his eyes.

The change in him is as sudden as a catching flame, worn down to the end of his wits by the consuming pain and ready to inflict it on those deemed worthy by his broken logic. Backed into a corner of his own mind, Solomons twists his formidable torso towards his target and its unseen duplicates to make good on the threat. 

With seconds to react, Tommy grabs for his cap in his back pocket, leaning backwards to give himself more room to swing, tensing his frame in preparation for the force of a blow that never lands. 

“Fucccking… FUCK!” Solomons bellows and begins to swear in his own tongue as his body convulses, torso slamming back into the headboard with a sickening crunch. Dropping the fight stance, Tommy slides back off the bed and takes a second to get his bearings. Tuning out the agonizing sounds, he immediately hones in on Solomons legs locked out in front of him. 

“Now what did I say about moving, ay?” Tommy admonishes carefully, voice low and soothing, giving over to the instinct that always made him so attuned with creatures. He circles to the end of the bed and drags off the heavy bedspread to confirm the source of the debilitation. 

Solomons eyes are wrenched shut, blocking out the waves of pain. Tommy swallows hard in spite of himself as he watches the muscles of his thick thighs surge involuntarily underneath the light bed clothes, powerful even in their powerless state. His hands clench in the bedsheets before lashing out to thump the empty space beside him in agonized frustration, fingers stretching unconsciously towards the side table before clenching shut again. Tommy follows the motion, finding the forgotten cane and all the confirmation he needs. 

The solution comes quickly and as with all of his great ideas, Tommy knows he is unlikely to come out unscathed. 

“Your sciatica giving you trouble there, Alfie.” Tommy states rather than asks as he places his weight on the edge of the bed, playing at distraction as Solomons hisses and spits, eyes snapped shut as another wave of pain leaves him gasping. 

“Just a-s-spasm…” Solomons manages, “Been bad with it lately…shouldn’t last long…” 

“I want to try something.” Tommy hears himself say, solid and collected. He places his full weight on the end of the bed and rests his hands on either side of Solomons bare ankles, course with hair and slicked with sweat under his fingers. 

Solomons emits a warning growl, but he opens his eyes and the desperation for relief buried under the aggravation spurs Tommy past any possible trepidation. 

“More fucking voodoo? Come off it…” Solomons breaks off with a wince, clamping a hand onto the head board as sweat pours down his face. His legs, despite their intermittent tremors, remain rigid. 

“It’ll be over before you know it.” Tommy promises, licking his lips unconsciously as he moves onto the bed, his torso horizontal with the base. He knows Solomons is with him as he distractedly follows the path of Tommy’s tongue before snapping back to his eyes. 

“Trust me.” Tommy says, and despite the blustering that follows, it’s there in his eyes and the way his shoulders slump before he reclines his head back, exposing the thick column of his throat as he transfers his gaze to the ceiling, averting his eyes from the pain to come. 

“Mate, I’m not a fucking filly you can whisper to in your dulcet tones and…AY!” 

Solomons gives a shout but Tommy moves fast, shifting the other man’s ankles onto his shoulders. The brays of pain that ensue reflect the unwillingness of the locked legs to relent, but Tommy, ever the tunneller, drives forward against the resistance as Solomons kicks and writhes, raining down curses on his straining back as Tommy feels his feet slip on the floorboards, searching for purchase.

“Get off me, you mental gypo bastard! I’ll fill the streets of Birmingham with blood, you filthy pikey scum…” Solomons raves, delirious on the pain, howling in rage. 

Though Solomons’ abuse doesn’t abate, a savage grin breaks over Tommy’s face when he feels his legs begin to give way. Capitalising on the small victory, he pushes further forward up the bed, slowly but unrelentingly forcing Solomons knees to bend back towards his chest. Tommy straightens his own legs for leverage, still struggling as he ploughs his shoulders forward against the incredible strength of Solomons thighs. 

The struggle goes on for minutes, Tommy making his way closer against the stubborn force of Solomons, whose cussing and pushing does little to assist in the wake of the limitless stores of his body’s endurance. And his body is fighting, even as the strained nerve in his lower back continue to send intense signals of shooting pain down the length of him. Tommy shivers himself, inching onward with each receding wave as he feels the referred shock run through his frame. 

“I’ll fucking have you for this, Tommy!” Solomons promises savagely as Tommy finally succeeds in forcing Solomons knees past the 90-degree angle, still fighting for release as his hips lift slightly off the bed. Tommy takes his weight, bearing down over him. 

Amidst the heat of the scuffle, reaction gives way to reason as Tommy’s scattered thoughts begin to play catch up, taking stock of the situation. The realisation slowly dawns that Solomons legs are over his shoulders, calves around his neck, the backs of his thrashing thighs pinned to Tommy’s heaving chest as he leans in to set the stretch, ensuring the muscles reach their release point. 

To say he’d never conceived plausibly being in such a situation was honest. To say he’d never considered it under different circumstances was another entirely questionable truth altogether. He had known from their meeting that they would physically clash one day, but never like this… 

The momentary lapse in judgement is all the time Solomons needed to wrap his hands around Tommy’s windpipe.

“Are you always this professionally hands on?” Solomons hisses with an experimental squeeze that drags a muted choking sound from Tommy’s throat, his eyes lighting up. Resisting the urge to struggle, Tommy doesn’t yield an inch. He’s come too far to concede ground now. 

“If the situation dictates...” Tommy replies, panting heavily as Solomons loosens his grip to search his eyes. Speaking is difficult as he struggles to breath and maintain his hold, but he feels the need to verbally indulge Solomons’ insanity to distract him from the pain and to see through what he started.

He tries not to focus on how close their faces are as he wraps his hands around the tops of Solomons thighs for extra leverage, squeezing in reprieve. He tells himself it’s the lack of oxygen as he grits his teeth, thoughts wandering. Tries not to focus on the thickness of Solomons lips, the strangely intoxicating sour-sweet combination of his breath as his chest rises and falls.

Tommy shakes his head, shifting slightly in a move he hopes looks as though he is resetting his stance rather than putting some space between his hips and Solomons body before moving back in. Solomons mouth curves into a wicked smile as if he can read his thoughts straying from the professional objective. 

Unable to take the silence, Tommy adds, “Are you this combative with all of yours?” 

The cheekiness is rewarded with a tightening squeeze that has Tommy’s vision marred by white pin pricks. 

“You’ve no idea how brutal I can be.”

Tommy feels his breath catch as the strained muscles underneath his body blessedly beginning to give, fighting his body’s urge to lash out against the tightening hands around his neck as he leans further forward with the motion. Solomons must feel it too, as his eyes widen in surprise, obscenely long eye lashes fluttering shut momentarily in blissful relief, almost forgetting he has Tommy in a chokehold. 

“I’ve an appreciation for your physicality in business. I’ve seen it firsthand in your bakery.” Tommy reminds him, mind flickering back to the baker stupid enough to step out of line. Solomons hands remain around his neck, loosening but reluctant, as though the momentary respite might be a ruse.

“Fuck me…that is good.” Solomons groans as the stiffened muscles begin to relax, his voice lilting, almost dream-like as he continues, “Employees are different, mate. Sometimes a display of dominance is necessary to enforce hierarchy, show who’s on top.” 

Tommy shifts again uncomfortably, giving himself as much space as possible with hands still forcing him close. Against his will, his body begins to respond to the sound and the heat and the close proximity and the hold threatening to send him to sleep.

It used to happen in the war sometimes; the surge of adrenaline, the thrill of the altercation and the threat of harm producing a jolt of physical arousal. He tries to tell himself that’s all it is. An unfortunate by-product of their business. But there is something else in Solomons eyes as they open, feverish and hungry and bare. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, but the words in his head will their way out.

“Is that why your hands are still around my throat, or is this just your way of expressing your gratitude?”

“You forget yourself. This is merely a provoked response to invasive contact on my person.” Solomons grin is feral, “And your attitude surmises exactly why it is important to enforce boundaries.” 

“And why is that?” Tommy challenges, carefully testing the range of movement. He leans sharply forward before relenting, producing a broken sound from the man underneath him at the intensified contact, but his muscles are already far more pliant to the touch. 

Satisfied, Tommy moves to slide out of the hold. Solomons responds by releasing his neck, but grabs his jaw with both hands. Tommy greedily inhales as he feels nails bite into the sharp edges of his cheeks, remaining still. 

“You’ve got a smart mouth on you. I’d slap the taste out of my boy’s mouths for talking to me like that.” Solomons affirms, dark eyes bearing into Tommy’s, wading through the depths to see just how far he can go. 

If Tommy were less proud, more concerned with self-preservation, he’d keep his mouth shut. Nonetheless he chooses his words with care. 

“Good thing I don’t work for you, then.” 

“Shame.” Solomons coos. Tommy remains motionless, discomfort rising as Solomons eyes continue their interrogation of his face, “Esther could have off. Would even get a proper maid’s outfit.” 

Tommy feels the colour raise in his cheeks at that, and he wishes he could stake it all on pride as he watches Solomons drink in the catch in his breath without the stranglehold, the increasing tension in his frame, too aware of their closeness, the free hand around his throat. To be reduced to nothing more than a servant should be demeaning, but the heat in Solomons tone displays his true intention. The sinister glint in his warm eyes makes Tommy’s mouth run dry, even as his anger ignites. 

“I’ve done my time in uniform.” Tommy replies, irritated and uncomfortable and needing to be gone, but refusing to break eye contact as the tension between them builds, “Best invest in someone with a long term interest in your health…mine is purely contractual.”

“Is that a fucking threat?” Solomons snaps, and Tommy wonders if he’s taken it too far this time but holds his position, a soldier till the end. 

Fingers bite into his jaw again, threatening to crush as Solomons takes the measure of him. As unrelenting as the streets he was raised in, Tommy stares back, wordless, defiant, waiting. 

“You should take more care for yours, talking to me like that.” Solomons says finally with a growl, squinting hard at him, “Too smart and too fucking pretty by half…”

The hands on his jaw move to the back of his neck and suddenly Alfie is pulling him in, lunging forward to crush their mouths together. Their teeth clash and Tommy can taste his own blood as Solomons bites into his lower lip. It’s overwhelming, the smell of whiskey and sweat, the coarse hair of his beard scratching his neck as Tommy scrabbles for purchase, for air, unable to deny the warmth that pools in his belly at the absurd sensation of it all. 

As Solomons sucks his lower lip into his mouth, Tommy breaks the contact, pulling off with an obscene pop. His lip stings fiercely, an insistent reminder he’s just made it out by the skin of his teeth. Solomons remains propped up against the headboard, wets his lips and bears his teeth, the fire muted to glowing embers. 

Making for a counter move, Alfie’s eyes blow wide as he finds himself unable to lift himself forward, struggling fruitlessly. Later, Tommy will think how strong Solomons must be to have avoided the elixir’s pull for so long, and how lucky that it takes hold before things become even more compromising. Now, he moves safely out of reach, breathing ragged. 

“Tommy…” Solomons whispers his name in a low whine as the sedative component takes hold, forcing his exhausted body into the rest it has been deprived of. 

“Sleep. Shut your eyes and stop fucking fighting it.” Tommy demands, running a rough hand through his hair, refusing to admit how wrecked he sounds to his own ears. Whether of his will or not, Solomons acquiesces, his body giving a final shudder before going out cold. 

Slumping in the chair by the fire, Tommy lights a cigarette with unsettled hands, watching Solomons prone form. He doesn’t remove the smoke until its dwindled down to the embers before slipping off into the London mid-morning. 

__

“Mr. Solomons – oh God…!” 

Fearing for the worst, Ollie bravely leaps at the bed, shaking his employer’s hulking form, unable to rouse him. 

“Get off 'im, boy.” Esther shoos him, checking the Jewish boss pulse point, “E’s still here. Mr. Shelby wore him down after all.” 

“I bet that ain’t all he’s done – don’t give me that salacious look, Esther!”

Esther hisses in response, with an authoritative wave of her hand. 

“Leave him rest.” 

Privately Ollie swears the burns in the arm chair are part of an irreversibly incantation and prays that whatever remains of his boss’s soul is spared in the exchange that has left him, to the naked eye, dead to the world. 

___

In the weeks that follow, Tommy puts the excursion to London behind him, returning to business as usual. 

But the symptoms still remain. The bleeding stops, but his lower lip remains fat and every glance at it in the mirror has the blood shamefully draining from his face to pool elsewhere when his mind slips to its infliction. His fingers rub the discoloured bruising lining his jaw, ugly and unavoidable, unwanted feelings fading with the colouration. 

“Find yourself some trouble in London, Tom?” John boy is the only one brave or stupid enough to ask. 

Ice blue eyes silence the laughter on his lips. Pol tuts, clipping the younger Shelby around the ear as he quickly departs. Arthur hums, swilling whiskey in a tea cup. Tommy remains quiet. 

___

 

“Another telegram from London, Tommy.” 

He avoids her eyes this time, the concern bleeding from them like a wound, focuses on the words. No codes or metaphors, just a date and time for their meeting.

“Shall I ask one of the boys to go?” Lizzie asks, before adding in a rare personal aside, “If it’s just a routine shipment…you’re so run down…”

“No.” Tommy raises a hand, broaching no argument, “It has to be me. Thank you, Lizzie.” 

She nods and leaves, as ever knowing that no one, not even sense itself, stands in the way of her employer’s conviction. As the door clicks, Tommy breathes an agitated sigh, eyes falling back to the paper, turning it over restlessly in his hands. 

As far as Tommy is concerned, the past is behind them. Solomons doesn’t need to know any more than he can recall. After four days stuck with his thoughts on the canals, Tommy is certain that between the booze, delirium and the potent solution, the specifics of their exchange (the unannounced appearance, the ingestion of the medicine without his lucid consent and the altercation that followed) will have just been reduced to another fever dream conjured by his rambling mind. 

He catches his reflection in the mirror as he leaves the office. The bruises have faded, but the thought of Solomons’ hands on his neck bloodies his cheeks. 

“Time to check in on the patient, then.” He mutters to himself, eyes darting away from his own reflection as he hangs his head with a rueful smile, hoping the unusual feelings fade with Solomons’ recollection. 

___

Ollie nearly tips his chair over backwards in his haste to get to his feet as the devil himself strides into the bakery, whipping a black pistol from his overcoat. 

“You!” 

“Do you greet all your appointments with such warmth, Ollie?” The brandished weapon does nothing to affect Tommy’s movement as he strides closer. 

Ollie sets both hands on the gun, levelling it at the older man’s chest as he moves within clear striking range. 

“You dare show your face here, after what you did to Mr. Solomons!” Ollie grits out. 

“Is he not well?” A ghost of a frown whispers across Tommy’s face as he moves to a standstill directly in front of the younger man, a trace of humanity meant to fool on the face of a demon.

“Better than ever!” Ollie cries, the double handed grip doing nothing to stop his hands from shaking, “It’s not the result I object to so much as the method…don’t come any closer!”

“I believe you’re mistaken.” Tommy replies calmly, the barrel point now pressed into his flesh as he regards the sweating lad with a cold detachment, “And now I’m late for my meeting.” 

Ollie makes no move to allow him passage, even as he shakes. 

“I saw it with my own eyes! His breathing stopped, he was in a trance…” 

“A man shouldn’t make accusations without proof or brandish a weapon he doesn’t intend to make use of.” Tommy says evenly, fixing Ollie with a stare devoid of emotion, “Best make it quick, lad.” 

“OLLIE!” 

Tommy grabs Ollie’s wrist, deflecting the aim from his person and forcing the boy’s arm skyward with lightning speed as he starts, pulling the trigger in fright at the booming voice of his master. Both cover their heads as plaster rains down on them, courtesy of the newly formed hole in the ceiling. 

Solomons bears down on them just as Tommy removes the forgotten gun from the youth’s shaking hand, not wanting to encourage Solomons to make use of it on his young ward. 

“What in the fuck do you think you’re playing at, boy?” Despite the height difference, Solomons easily lifts the younger man from the ground by his collar.

“You can’t be alone with him, Mr. Solomons! Last time…” Ollie splutters, choking in the immovable grip. 

“This is not your business. You do not deal in clandestine meetings or nefarious affairs and you will never again produce a firearm WITHOUT MY CONSENT!” Solomons roars, the echo reverberating through the underground establishment.

Tommy widens his stance, preparing to step in if the reprimanding goes too far. But Solomons remembers himself, maintaining his powerful hold as he shakes his head despairingly. 

“Ollie, Ollie, Ollie…do not take the weight of it, because this is not yet your world. Am I understood?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Excellent.” Solomons drops him unceremoniously to the floor. The boy crumples in on himself, yet Tommy’s eyes don’t leave Solomons, “Now fuck off out of my sight while I convince myself not to throttle you.”

Solomons watches with mild disdain as his apprentice scampers into the depths of the establishment. 

“I see my wayward associate has set a bad, bad tone for our proceedings.” Solomons gestures with his palms up, arms spread, a welcome and an apology in one movement.

“His security initiative has greatly improved.” Tommy replies dryly, accepting with a nod. 

“Impulsive idiocrasy, more like.” Solomons barks a laugh. Tommy notices the colour has returned to his face, before the lines are rearranged into a frown directed at his mid-section, “Hmmm…you won’t mind relinquishing your vice grip on my personal affects before we translocate to my office?” 

“Gladly.”

Tommy, who hadn’t realised in the commotion that he had been gripping the gun at his side quite so hard, drops it to the floor without further comment, kicking it towards Solomons in a universally neutralising movement. 

The gesture was crueller than intended as Solomons slowly bends to retrieve the article at his feet. Tommy notes that the movement is executed with caution, but with an improved range of fluidity that had previously escaped the Jewish gang leader. No doubt the cane had been left in his haste to diffuse the situation in the hall, leaving Tommy to wonder if it was currently necessary, given the speed of his approach. 

“Now that is a smooth transaction. Let’s not delay our business any further, shall we?” 

“After you.” 

“See that, Ollie? Mr. Shelby politely allowed me to take the lead in my own establishment, as if his right. Which is why, after disarming you with ease, I did not allow him to maintain possession of a revolver in full range of my back!” Solomons shouted in infuriation down the empty hall as Tommy follows behind. 

“Your doorman's not pleased with me.” Tommy remarks as they walk. Solomons strides seem strong, weighted by his solid frame but not by the ailments that had previously afflicted him. 

“He has been a bit queer lately. You see, I was in a bit of a state there for a while, not life threatening but not pleasant.” Solomons explains lightly, “I’m of a mind that while he was tending to me, he contracted some mutant strain of disease himself, given his recent behaviour...” 

“I’ve been informed.” Tommy said, easing into the knowledge that Solomons had no recollection of their meeting after all as he set to opening a set of locks on his office door, “Is he showing any symptoms?” 

“Mmm…” Solomons paused to scratch his beard in musing, before opening the door and stepping aside to let Tommy enter first, consumed in thought. 

Tommy accepts the gesture, moving through as Solomons continues over his shoulder. 

“He’s overly protective, very quick to start, and suddenly very into books, of all the heinous things…spouting all sorts of ridiculously foreboding anecdotes about magic spells and potions…you don’t know anything about that, do you?”

Tommy spun but felt the breath crush from his lungs as Solomons whipped him into the wall, pinning a forearm across his chest to hold him in place. Trapped in Solomons clutches, he quickly resigns himself to the fact that fighting is a futile waste of energy and conserves his strength for a more opportune moment as he struggles to catch his breath. 

Making good use of the procured weapon, Solomons forces his head up, the barrel of the gun digging painfully into his throat. 

“Playing coy doesn’t suit you, Thomas!” Solomons snarls, “Did you or did you not attempt to poison me with your gypsy cauldron juice?” 

“If I wanted you dead, I would've left you be.” Tommy manages flatly, trying not to choke on his own spit as Alfie grinds the metal barrel in harder into his person, “Is that what Ollie told you or what you remember?” 

Solomons interrogates his face with the rapid movement of his eyes, betraying his lack of conviction as he surveys Tommy’s demeanour, a flush of colour the only hint of a response as the gun bruises his windpipe. 

“No magic potion, just a herbal recipe.” Tommy reminds him. 

He took the responsive clicking of Solomons tongue as an approval to continue, even with the barrel of the gun still pressing warningly into his throat. 

“From my mother? You would only drink it on the condition that I drank it first.” Tommy presses, waiting as Solomons face wars between the fragmented truths surfacing from his memory and fever dreams. 

“Why couldn’t I be roused for three days then?” Solomons bites out, eyes still narrowed suspiciously. 

“You used your distilleries finest as a chaser.” Tommy confirms, daring to raise an eyebrow as a shadow of unconcealed remembrance flickers across Solomons’ face,  
“Coupled with the illness, the exhaustion and the exertion with your sciatica flaring...”

“So it wasn’t a fever dream, you stretching me out on my bed…” Solomons mused, eyes lighting up brightly, the pressure hold on Tommy’s throat dropped as he threaded a fist into his shirt front. 

“To alleviate the spasms in your legs.” Tommy panted with effort, praying that the flush in his checks would be attributed to the mild strangulation rather than the inflection in Solomons’ volatile voice and the sudden effect it was having with their bodies hard up against each other. 

“And was I compliant to your physician-like commands?” Solomons asked, amusement twisting his lips into a wicked grin as Tommy did his best to catch his breath, leaning his head back against the cool brick wall.

“Your temperament was as willing to concede as your body, but both bent.” Tommy replied, licking his lips, his throat suddenly very dry.

Solomons chuckled at that, bringing his face closer yet. Tommy moves his head off the wall to meet him, unwilling to back down. 

“Under that persuasive tongue, rather than by your hands.” 

“Bit of both, I’d wager.” 

“True words spoken from a true gambling man! Speaking of your mouth, some of the hazier details need clarification…”

Quick as a lightning strike, Tommy surges off the wall, displacing Solomons balance and breaking his hold, fisting both hands near the open neck of the other man’s shirt and breaking his grip on the weapon. Before Solomons can recover, Tommy aggressively captures the startled Jewish boss’s mouth with his own hungrily, driving him backward until his knees hit the edge of his desk. 

As Solomons weakened legs give way, Tommy breaks the contact to duck and grab the firearm discarded on the floor, returning to pistol-whip the lunging Solomons hard in the jaw. The blow sent him reeling back into the desk, and Tommy knew the need to physically dominate was overtaking his reason as he threw the weapon aside, pinned Solomons to the table with his closed fist around his throat as the other began viciously tearing open the top of his shirt. 

Exposing the open hold, Solomons powerful body surges upright, kneeing Tommy in the side before shoving him backwards. Solomons is on him before Tommy can get properly upright and the two wrestle for control, the office door groaning under the impact as the two bodies slam into it. 

Solomons gains the upper hand and pins Tommy into the door with the sheer bulk of his frame, before he begins to attack his neck. Sharp bites leave marks where the bruises from their previous encounter are just fading. Tommy suppresses groan and lets the door take his weight when sucking follows, snaking a leg around Solomons waist for support, yanking his hair at the base of the solid neck, strain his head back with the pull. 

Solomons growls in approval and Tommy flails for a second as he is lifted bodily from the ground, the other man shifting him half onto his hip and taking the rest of the weight as his assault extends to the collarbone, possessively claiming each centimetre of skin gained. He can feel Solomons against his displaced leg, as thick and demanding as his own need. 

In the split second that the exchange has escalated, both are stopped from going too far by the shrill voice from behind the door. 

“He isn’t giving you trouble, is he, Mr. Solomons?” Comes Ollie’s voice, tentative but pushy, “I thought I heard something break in there.” 

Their eyes meet and Tommy swallows, hard. Solomons dark eyes have the same feverish abandon from their last meeting, this time bought harshly into focus by intense lust. The thickness of his ruined red lips are only more pronounced as he strains to breathe. His grip on Tommy loosens as if he is beginning to get his bearings, but doesn’t falter. 

“Sir? Do you need me to come in there?” Comes the unwanted voice of reason warily from the bakery outside. 

In an unintentionally intimate gesture, Solomons drops his forehead into Tommy’s rising chest for a second, pressing into it as he visibly reigns himself in. 

“Don’t break the door down, Ollie.” His voice is controlled as Tommy slips out of his grip soundlessly, punching the wall beside him with powerful force in his frustration before turning to face Tommy, unable to help but add, “He’s a devil alright, but I’m handling him…”

“Devil!” 

“We’re nearly done here.” Tommy calls as he resets his suspenders, with an admonishing shake of the head at Solomons dips his head to focus on fixing his buttons, a smile barely visible behind his beard. 

When the assistant’s footsteps recede down the hall, Tommy glances up from fixing his clothing to be caught in Solomons stare. With his shoulders set forward and his hardened gaze fixed intently, he looks as primal as ever and Tommy wonders which way this is going to go down. 

“You weren’t wrong.” Solomons finally breaks the silence, “About your hands.”

Blood drips from the edge of his mouth in a thin line into his beard, a clip from the pistol. He ignores it. 

“Sometimes a display of dominance is necessary.” Tommy returns. A look of recollection passes over Solomons face but it doesn’t hinder his hard countenance as he walks behind his desk. 

“You’re going to have a hard time explaining those bites away.” Solomons muses, supporting himself on his forearms as he leans. He interrupts his inspection of the defiled desk to admire their degenerate handiwork.

“Travelling is tough. The boys will either think it was a short scuffle or a decent fuck.” Tommy replies effortlessly, replacing his cap on his head with a half-smile as Solomons eyes light up in delight and something close to admiration. 

“And how could I forget a mouth like that?” Solomons grins with a shake of his head, “Shall we pick this up next time?” 

“The shipment – same dock, same time?” 

“All about business with you, Tommy, isn’t it?” Solomons breathes, amazed. 

“As always. Glad you’re well, Alfie.” Tommy dips his cap and turns to leave. 

“Wait on a fucking second!” Solomons demands with a pointed stab of his ringed finger, eyes blackened and frenzied in their intensity, “If you resuscitated me with your mouth during my ailment as I've now come to recall after our antics here, how come you haven’t caught the black death then?” 

Tommy remains silent, ducking his head. 

“Because you’re a fucking snake charmer!” Solomons stares in disbelief before exploding into laughter that sends him howling down into his chair. When he looks up, Tommy’s smile is just visible beneath the peak of his cap, a brief flash that illuminates his face. 

From his vantage point at the door, Ollie abandons his lurking and scatters, vowing never to test Tommy Shelby and his otherworldly abilities ever again.


End file.
